


One Way to a Southern Man’s Heart

by CountryDoctor



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Gay Sex, Humor, M/M, Oakland California, Soul food
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-02
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-28 04:40:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/987761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CountryDoctor/pseuds/CountryDoctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a long day of work, Leonard McCoy comes home to a surprise dinner cooked by his partner Jim Kirk.  Turns out that soul food has an "arousing" effect on McCoy--to say the very least.</p><p>Beta is Pamdizzle</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Long Day and an Empty Stomach

_“Hey hey, Peeps!  This is Amistad and you’re listenin’ to Berkley Liberation Radio on 104.1 FM.  It’s 6:15 on June 14, 2013.  Damn, time went by quick.  BUT I digress.  Here’s an update about a wildfire on Livermore Freeway.  Firefighters now have a wildfire in Livermore Freeway along Interstate 580 under control._

_For those just tuning in: Chief Firefighter William Green, the Livermore Fire Department received phone calls reporting flames along the highway at 12:15 p.m. By the time officials arrived, the fire jumped the freeway at one point and sparked on the other side. The fire charred about 50 acres._

_“They shut down part of the freeway near Altamont Pass Road because of thick smoke.  Westbound lanes were closed around 2 p.m. Though the smoke seems to be clearing up near 580 East, Livermore Fire Department officials do not want to take any chan—”_

 

       Leonard McCoy clicked off the radio and sighed.  Glad he wasn’t caught up in that.   The worst he could deal with was the traffic. It was vacation season, so everybody and their fuckin’ momma were heading towards the bay area for the weekend.  It was annoying, but he could handle that, living in Oakland and all. 

       Speaking of living, he was ready to be home.  Oakland Housing Authority had him on-call for three weekends in a row—including the one that passed.  And he had to work his regular shifts.  The reason for that?  The new guy, Victor Rodriguez. 

       Well, he _had been_ new.  He was canned three weeks ago.  McCoy and Rodriguez worked together on occasion at the Bruce Street site.  Everything was good until towards the end of last month. Rodriguez would get jittery like a whore in church whenever he was around a certain female who lived on the second level. 

       McCoy didn’t put two and two together until some guy stomped towards the main site with a ball bat to swing Rodriguez’s head off.  Turned out he was banging his fiancé, who was the female Rodriguez got all shaky around.

       Long story short, Rodriguez was booted, so McCoy and a few of the other guys had to work extra to pick up the slack.  It was best that he was gone.  If the fiancé didn’t kill Rodriguez, he and the guys would’ve for being a fuckin’ idiot.

       He couldn’t stand working crazy hours—especially since it resulted from some jackass who didn't keep their dick in their pants.  His former co-worker’s antics was cutting into the free time needed to move into his new apartment on 18th Street. 

       To make matters worse, low hallow grumbles rolled from his empty stomach. McCoy caught the fabric of his maintenance uniform shirt and pulled it up until it was no longer tucked inside his pants. His hand disappeared under his shirt in an attempt to massage away the discomfort. But the growls only increased, followed by mild hunger cramps.

       “Jesus,” he muttered under his breath as he stopped at a traffic light.  “My stomach’s eating itself.  Fuck my life.”

       He suddenly felt eyes on him and twisted his hand to his left.  His gaze suddenly fell on a car in the left lane; two young boys in the backseat.  The tip of their index fingers were pressed against their car window, their lips turned upward slyly.  At first he didn’t know why the hell they were gawking at him.  He groaned, annoyed, as he realized what it he looked like he was doing with his hands.  He tore his eyes away from the laughing teens and stared straight ahead, his hands gripped around the steering wheel.

      He was officially ready for this day to be good and done.

      More like the whole damn week.

      Suddenly, the sounds of birds chirping sang from his shirt pocket.  He reached into it and looked at the screen.  A half grin quirked his lips when he realized who it was.  He swiped his thumb against the hard plastic and quickly pressed the speaker button.

     “Hey Darlin’,” McCoy greeted, holding the phone inches from his lips. 

     “Hey,” Jim’s voice replied tenderly.  “Are you on your way home?”

     “Yep.  I was held up at the site and lost track of time.”

     “Yeah.  I figured that happened ‘cause you’d be home by now.”

      “Speaking of which, what time is it?”

      “Time to get your ass home so we can have dinner.”

      “Shit.  Who you tellin’?  Whatcha end up makin’?

       Jim chuckled and McCoy melted.  His partner had the sexiest phone voice.  “You’ll see when you get here.”

      “What?  You not gonna tell me?”

      “Nope.  But I know you’ll love it.  Trust.”

      “Hey.  As long as it’s edible and goes good with Jack, you got me.”

      “Dude, I have you either way. Anyway, hurry up and get home, all right?”

      “I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

     “Awesome.  See you soon, baby.”

     “All right, Jimmy.  Bye.”

     “Bye.”

      McCoy tapped his thumb on the “End Call” button, prompting the home screen picture of his daughters Joanna and Briona to appear.  His eyes glanced at the time once again.  The white digital numbers read 6:45 p.m. Based on the street signs, he was ten minutes away from the apartment. He pressed his foot on the gas slightly, eager to get home to a meal shrouded in mystery. 

 


	2. Fruits of His Labor

            Jim Kirk caught the time displayed on his phone.  His gut and the numbers told him that Lenny was close, so he needed to hustle. 

            Not that he had much left to do anyway.  The table was already set with the chicken, yams, corn bread, and bottle of Jack, all waiting to be served.  While the majority of the meal rested on the table, the collard greens remained in the crock pot, soaking in hot chicken broth and bacon juice.  The greens took longer only because Jim was anal about them being clean and washed the living shit out of them.  Growing up on a farm taught him not to play games when it came to pesticides. 

            Plus, he wanted them to be perfect.  He knew better than to prepare them too early or for too long.  Otherwise, Lenny would never let him live down the day he cooked 'soggy collards.' 

            A loud _ding_ came from the crock pot, signaling that the greens were finally done.  Jim picked up his oven mitt from the counter and slipped it onto his hand.  He lifted the glass oval top off the pot and immediately hummed when he took in the aroma of fried bacon, spices and broth.  He placed the top onto the counter and grabbed the spoon sitting next to the crockpot.  He then dipped the spoon into the pot and scooped up a green strand from the simmering broth.

            “That’s fucking tasty,” he appraised with satisfaction after popping the contents into his mouth.   He slipped off the mitt and went to one of the cupboards to retrieve a soup bowl.  With the spoon in his hand, he filled the bowl with greens, making sure that he grabbed up plenty of bacon bits.   

            After placing the bowls of greens in the middle of the table, Jim stood in front of the kitchen table, examining every plate, utensil and dish of food to make sure everything was set.  Satisfied with the display, he pulled a chair away from the table and sat down, smiling at the fruits of his labor.

            “Lenny is going to fuckin’ flip his shit when he comes home,” Jim reassured himself.  Sure, Jim cooked for the both of them often (if he didn’t, they’d have Hamburger Helper and chips every night) but he raised his own bar tonight.

             He had to.  It was the least he could do for his guy.  Lenny’s work hours had been insane for the past three weeks and they’d only seen each other in passing…or it seemed.  Even while they were moving into the new apartment, Lenny’s pager had blown up in the middle of them loading furniture into the U-Haul.  It was to the point where Jim had to ask a buddy, Gary Mitchell, to lend him a hand.

            No worries, though.  Jim had made sure everything was taken care of regardless, and within two days of them moving in, he’d emptied the boxes that once held his and Lenny’s belongings.  Besides rearranging their furniture, Jim managed to also hang clothes in the closet, hook up the flat screen, stock the cupboards and jet to Trader Joes for groceries.  And that was just in one day.  Then he was topping it off with cooking a home-cooked Southern dinner.

            Yeah.  He was awesome like that.

            Shit, he was used to hustling at warp speeds.  As one of the waiter supervisors, Jim worked at the Olive Branch four nights a week and every other weekend.  This weekend was the other guy’s turn to be tortured with last minute call-ins and flirtatious socialites.  Tonight, he was going to finally enjoy his apartment with his boyfriend.  Fuck going out.  He was about Netflix tonight.

            Or if he played his cards right, maybe something else. 

            Jim’s gaze fell on the plate holding a small hill of cornbread muffins.  He told himself that he was going to wait it out, but the smell of freshly cooked food made his stomach rumble.  He casually reached forward and grabbed the one sitting on the top of the pile. 

           Suddenly, Jim heard the soft jangle of keys as the door then opened and Lenny walked into the apartment.    

 


	3. A Surprise Dinner with a Side of Cobbler

            

            “Hey Darlin’,” McCoy greeted while shutting the door behind him with the bottom of his boot.  “It smells good in here…”

            The maintenance worker’s voice trailed off as his sight fell on the display spread across the kitchen table.  When Jimmy asked him what he wanted for dinner, he said the usual: something good and edible with a side of Jack.  But shit!  He didn’t expect the kid to remind him of Georgia. 

            McCoy’s gaze swept across the table, drinking in all the good fixins: fried chicken, steaming hot collards, cornbread muffins and…his eyes suddenly stopped on a rectangular dish.  The thick glass displayed something orange covered in something that resembled a flat cloud.  McCoy squinted his eyes, wondering if they might be deceiving him.  He approached the table to examine the contents more closely and immediately his eyes widened. 

            “Jimmy,” he called, no longer containing his growing excitement. “Are--are those _yams_?” 

            “Yep,” Jim replied, chuckling at his partner’s reaction. “I know it’s your favorite, so I had to do it.”  The young man rose from the table and approached Lenny before wrapping his arm around his partner’s waist.  “ _And_ I made them with marshmallows and extra cinnamon.  There’s also extra crispy fried chicken—cooked twice of course, collard greens with bacon, cornbread made from scratch served with a bottle of Jack.  Oh!  Don’t eat too much.  You have to save some room for dessert.”

            “After all this, you had time to make dessert?”

            “You already know.  And I’m not telling you what it is, so don’t ask.”

            McCoy shook his head, awestricken with both the spread and the effort that was thrown into it.  His partner cooked for the both of them more often than not and he always walked away full and satisfied.  But this dinner was different because Jimmy had him and his memories in mind. “Holy mother of goddamn, Darlin’.  You’re gonna have to roll me outta here.” 

            “I’ll take that as a complement,” Jim said as he leaned in and pressed his soft lips onto Lenny’s cheek. He lingered for a moment, as always, to take in the scent of Old Spice.  When he pulled away, he affectionately patted his partner on the back as he said, “All right.  Let’s eat, Lenny.  I’m, like, fucking starving.”

            “You don’t have to tell me twice,” McCoy returned as he lifted up the bottle of Jack and popped off the cap.  He poured the dark brown liquid into the small glass standing by his empty plate.  Afterwards, he raised the plate off the table and fixed his sights on the food. 

             While Jim served himself on the opposite side of the table, McCoy scooped greens and candied yams onto his plate.  He then lifted up one, two pieces of chicken with silver tongs, watching them bounce slightly when they landed on his plate.   Lastly, he crowned his helping with a cornbread muffin.

            McCoy moved towards one of the empty chairs.  After gently setting his full dish onto the table, he pulled the chair from its spot and dropped down.  The air in the kitchen was warm and inviting, laden with the intense aroma of salt and pepper sprinkled over chicken and dissolved in sizzling oil.  It reminded him of the days when he was a little boy sitting in his Grandmomma’s kitchen, watching her cook and sometimes helping by coating the chicken with flour.  The smells also reminded his stomach of just how hungry he’d on the long drive home.

            That and the annoying hunger cramps burning a damn hole through his stomach.

            His cornbread muffin snatched his attention first.  The maintenance worker lifted up the small round treat and hummed as its warmth touched his fingertips.  He brought it closer to his nose, taking in the scent of cornmeal and melted butter.

          “Dude, are you going to eat it or snort it through your nose?” Jim joked from across the table.  He had since bitten into his muffin and his mouth was full of the bread.

         “Obviously you don’t understand the essence of cornbread,” Lenny responded with the same lightheartedness.  “You just can’t _eat_ the damn thing, sugar. You gotta appreciate it.  Savor it.”

         Jim laughed and shook his head.  “Could you be any more dramatic?”

        “Could you be any more of a smartass?”

        “Yeah.  Because my blood sugar’s low.”

        McCoy sucked his teeth as his partner laughed.  “Anyway.”

        With eyes closed, McCoy sank his teeth into the muffin. A moan tumbled from his throat when it crumbled inside his mouth. Every morsel was laced with the flavor of salted butter, milk and a blend of white sugar.  The hint of all-purpose flour and thoughts of Jimmy baking muffins with his own hands intensified the moment. He continued to relish every crumb until it was gone.

        He opened his eyes again and picked up his drumstick.  Thin swirls of steam that generated from the cooked meat warmed McCoy’s fingers, bringing him a feeling of comfort.  He slowly bit into the skin.  His senses were instantly satisfied by its crispiness and the taste of garlic, buttermilk, pepper and other house salts danced on his tongue.

        Beneath the crispy skin was tender meat that clung to the bone.  McCoy tore away the meat with one huge bite with zeal. When he finally finished, he slid his tongue against the back of his fingers to lap up the residue.

        Next, he stuck his fork into his collards and lifted the utensil up to his lips and shoveled it in.  “Holy shit,” he whispered as the mixture of crunchy bacon, chicken broth and spices brushed against his taste buds.  The bits of pork contained the tang of greens that were simmered to perfection.  _Good thing, too,_ McCoy mused, _because Jimmy woulda caught Hell for it._

        He finally got to his yams, the grand finale of the meal.  McCoy’s tongue skated across his lips as he dug his fork into a chunk of glazed sweet potato smothered with roasted marshmallow.  The minute he popped the chuck into his mouth, a sensation of pleasure rushed through his entire body.  The marshmallows soaked up the butter, sweet brown sugar and maple syrup sauce that coated the potatoes.  The nutmeg, mixed with cinnamon and vanilla, rolled around on his tongue.

        Jim watched Lenny the entire time, quietly observing his partner finish his dinner.  Most nights, he filled Jim’s ear with a “bat shit crazy report” pertaining to one of his co-workers (the best one was about his former co-worker.  That was fucking hilarious to a certain point).  In exchange, Jim talked about his days at the restaurant, another phone argument with his mother about her wanting him to go to college.

        But tonight wasn’t one of those typical nights.  For the first time, he himself appreciated his food, savoring every bite.  He remembered the night that Lenny shared stories about Southern dishes and how eating good food was like “making love on a honeymoon.”  And after watching Lenny, drinking in his sounds, he finally knew what he meant.

        “How was it?” asked Jim from across the table. 

        McCoy finished the last of his dinner and set his fork on his plate.  He leaned back into his chair and begun massaging his semi-full belly with eyes closed.  “I can’t even think straight right now,” replied McCoy, opening his eyes slightly to gaze at his partner.

       “Already?  We haven’t even had dessert yet.  Speaking of which…”  Jim slid away from the table and stood up to walk to the oven.  He lowered the oven door, with his bare hands, and gradually removed a small glass baking pan. 

        McCoy sat up in his chair as he noticed the pan had a sheet of tin foil covering the top.  He picked up his glass of Jack and raised it to his lips, washing down his meal with the strong liquor.

        Jim placed the pan carefully on the table.  “Are you ready, Lenny?” he asked, lightly biting his lower lip while eying his partner.

       “Well, I guess, Jimmy, if I knew what it was.”

        Smiling broadly, Jim peeled back the foil, revealing the freshly baked pecan-peach cobbler.  He watched with silent appreciation as Lenny’s eyes widened at the sight of one of his favorite desserts.

        “I figured you’d like it.  As you know, I’m allergic to peaches, so it’s all yours…shit!  Hold on.”  Jim moved towards the refrigerator and pulled open the freezer door.  His hand disappeared into the compartment and, within seconds, reemerged holding a quart of Ben and Jerry’s Vanilla ice cream.

        He then placed the container inches away from Lenny, who just stared at him silently.   His partner’s eyes shone with quiet thankfulness and Jim himself felt heat warm his face. 

        “Darlin’…”

       “I know.  You love me…which is why you’ll clean up after you’re done indulging.  You can tear down while I take a shower.”

       “I knew somethin’ was up when you broke out the peach cobbler,” McCoy huffed playfully.  “All right.  You go ‘head.  I got a peach cobbler to finish off.”

        Jim leaned over and kissed Lenny gently on the lips before disappearing from the kitchen, leaving his partner to experience his dessert.

 

 

 

           

           

           

 

            


End file.
